Letters to the Editor
Xrandadu Hutman
Published Letters: 2709 Editor's Choice: 52
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Ohhhh Julie Delpy....
[Read the article: Beyond the Multiplex]
[Read more letters about this article: Here]Man, you forgot to mention Delpy's great supporting role in "Hoax" opposite Richard Gere. You also forgot to mention that she was about the only entertaining aspect of "Killing Zoe," sitting atop Eric Stoltz....damn that Eric Stoltz.
Dear Julie Delpy, please take me to see "Manhattan" with you next time it is showing in a theater. (Please, nobody tell Julie that a big wide-screen digital TV player with a good sound system can be nearly as luscious as seeing a movie in the theater.) I would like to be your Mariel Hemingway-esque plaything, even if you have a much smarter and better-seasoned Diane Keaton lurking elsewhere in your life.
I will be your Wallace Shawn homunculus, your snotty Meryl Streep, your coke-snorting Dianne Weist, your overly neurotic Mia Farrow/Liev Schreiber/John Cusack, your alcoholic Barbara Hershey, your pot-smoking Dylan-quoting Shelly Duvall, your overused Scarlett Johansson, your narcissistic Charlize Theron, your bitter Judy Davis, your Charlotte Rampling doing weird-ass facial exercises in the mirror, your curly-haired Tony Roberts sidekick, your nymphet-chasing Sydney Pollack, your ubiquitous Zelig, your screen-jumping Jeff Daniels, your Cary Grant "Suspicion"-like maybe-killer Hugh Jackman boyfriend, your Tracey Ullman secret cookie, your giant neurotic sky-filling mother figure, your pasture-bouncing breast, your Orgasmotron, your Chinese recipe, your argument-backing Marshall McLuhan, your blacklisted McCarthy-era writer, your nebbish James Bond, your Soon-Yi.
Dear Julie Delpy. I want to lie in the park in Prague with you and hear you talk about how you gag at men's French-women fetishes and promise to go to a slacker art show but never show up because we're so busy talking about painful broken relationships and how much it hurts to know that the other person isn't thinking about you at all. I want to meet you again in a year and actually show up and be the hands that you forcibly place on your torso instead of that curly-haired "That Thing You Do" guy.
Dear Julie Delpy, I met a girl like you in Paris once, and she didn't speak much English and I didn't speak much French even though I do remember people saying "toot sweet" and "da-kor" all the time. She had eyes and a smile a lot like you, except brown hair, and we were with a group of political students hanging out near the canals on the east side of town, and then we went to dinner in a group and she kept smiling at me, and guess what -- I was too damned shy and inarticulate (especially in French) to figure out how to ask her out on a date, which would have been diffult but possible while sleeping on my friend's floor in Montmartre. I will always think about that girl, just like that old man always thinks about the girl with the umbrella in "Citizen Kane." And she reminds me of you. Damn.
Dear Julie Delpy, you will never read this, but all the Salon people will think I'm a dork.
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About Parisian taxi drivers
[Read the article: Beyond the Multiplex]
[Read more letters about this article: Here]Apparently they are a comedic element of another movie being released the very same week, "Rush Hour 3." A review I just read said that a Parisian taxi driver tells the heroes, "You lost in Vietnam. You lost in Iraq." Ouch! That's just mean, man!
Parisian taxi drivers really do suck. Thank god for the subways and funiculaires and trains and friends-with-cars and legs.
Last time I was in Paris I took a taxi back to the airport. The driver was a prick who tried to sucker me, drove me all over the place, to the wrong airport terminal, then tried to drop me off in a parking garage. He had been given clear, explicit directions, Terminal One, Terminal One, Terminal One. Not Terminal Two, jackass. "One! Un! Ich! Uno! Eins! Termiche Un! Deux NON!" He ended up trying to charge me 50 Euros for a trip from northern Paris to the aiport. I gave him 25 and walked. The little crepe made me latte for my plane. Thankfully British Airways put me on the next one in first class. So screw you, Paris taxi driver jerko, and thanks for the comfy airplane seat!
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wow, Bush doesn't sweat
[Read the article: Never let them see you sweat]
[Read more letters about this article: Here]Pigs don't actually sweat either.
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Uh, TMI, Camille...
[Read the article: Art movies: R.I.P.]
[Read more letters about this article: Here]"On a British lecture tour for the National Film Theatre in 1999, I asked to sleep with "Persona" -- whose five reels, like holy icons, rested in two silver cans next to my bed."
Whoa, back up there, sister. We didn't need to know. (I hope they washed them afterward.)
I could have lived without hearing about your cold douche, as well.